


Saving Sherlock

by NaughtyPastryChef



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Past Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU/alternate timeline. Sherlock OD's at 26 and Mycroft brings him to live with him. A character study of Mycroft and the relationship with his brother that no one is supposed to see, until they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cant help but be intrigued by Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship. So, this is my solution. This is, in a matter of speaking, my head cannon, so I apologize if you think it's OOC, but the majority of the first few chapters truly take place in Mycroft's head.

“…seems to be an accidental overdose, but with Mr. Holmes’ history I would recommend full sectioning and suicide watch for the foreseeable future. Your brother, sir, clearly cannot take care of himself. I see he’s checked himself out of the hospital numerous times, against medical advice and he has started and stopped more than four different rehab programs.”

Mycroft understood and heard every word that the polite and properly deferential doctor in front of him was saying, but in a separate part of his head, he was screaming. Screaming that he’d let Sherlock do this to himself again. Screaming that he’d not watched his brother as closely as he could, letting his work get in the way. Screaming that no one else cared about the fragile genius laying in the bed next to him. Sentiment was such a bother, but Mycroft only had it for one person, and he’d had it for 26 years, 158 days and 45 minutes. Ever since his baby brother had been placed in his arms when mummy got home from the private hospital he’d loved his brother. Making a decision, he coldly eyed up the doctor; seeing the ambition in the man’s eyes he knew his words would be taken as gospel.

“Thank you so very much Doctor Williams, I appreciate your candor as well as your suggestions. However, I think that my brother deserves better care than all of that and, as soon as he is able to leave, we will be heading to my home where I will be taking care of him myself. I don’t need to remind you that your discretion in this matter would be very much appreciated.” The doctor swallowed thickly and nodded before turning away and heading out of the room, hopefully to fill out the requisite paperwork.

Mycroft sighed inaudibly and turned to the body lying in the hospital bed. Sherlock looked positively awful. Though, that was to be expected with an overdose. He also looked small and heartbreakingly-young laying there. Mycroft reached out and brushed an errant curl off his baby brother’s forehead before seating himself in the convenient chair. “Sherlock, you won’t enjoy this anymore than I will, but I am going to help save you from yourself.” He gently squeezed the unresponsive fingers curled up on the sheets before rising. There was another matter to deal with in the hallway.

He stood tall and straight, wiping all emotion off his face before stepping out the door to meet the young Sergeant waiting nervously. “Sergeant Lestrade correct?” He smiled blandly and held out his hand. The hand that gripped his was firm and dry; he could tell that the nervousness had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his brother. The smile on his face became a bit more genuine.

“Please, sir, call me Greg. Is Mr. Holmes going to be alright?” Mycroft felt the smile fall from his lips as his mask became necessarily emotionless. It would not do to let an unknown police sergeant see his true emotions.

“Gregory, yes my brother will recover. Though it will take time and not a little bit of work from he and I to get him sorted properly. I simply cannot thank you enough for the way that you have handled the situation. You have my sincere gratitude.” His mask slipped for a fraction of a second to allow a spot of real thanks to shine on the policeman. He really was rather attractive, worried about Sherlock as he was. Where on earth did that thought come from?

“Sir, I think that Sherlock is a great kid, and I know he has an amazing mind. If there is ever anything that I can do for him, please call my private line and I would be happy to help. He just needs a bit of…well sorting out really. Someone to teach him how to sharpen that huge brain of his without the drugs. I felt really horrible when I found him, but I was glad it was me instead of someone else. I shudder to think how it could’ve ended up. But, I can see that you’ll take good care of him.” Gregory held out a card with his mobile number scribbled on it under his office line. Mycroft reached out to take it, mentally filing away the note to put both numbers in his contact list as soon as their conversation was completed.

“Gregory…thank you. Rest assured that I will certainly call you when you are needed. Your association with Sherlock has been very good for him, and once he is back on his feet he will need…you.” Mycroft caught himself before he could say a ‘friend’, Sherlock wasn’t good with people and had no one that he would call a ‘friend’. But he was being honest when he said that the police officer had been good for Sherlock.

“Okay Sir, well, I better get going. I have to start my shift in a few minutes. Thank God I found him off the clock, now I don’t have to file a report.” Gregory laughed, a charming sound, and shook Mycroft’s hand again before departing. Mycroft was glad that he was walking away because there was no instance where a report would be made of this incident and his cold, angry face reflected that. Shaking off his emotionless mask, he stepped back inside the private room and firmly shut the door behind him.

Mycroft resumed his position in his chair before removing his mobile from his pocket and adding Gregory’s numbers. He then marked them as favorites, as he thought that the two of them would be speaking with some level of regularity. Then he began the distasteful task of contacting Anthea and a few other, select employees, letting them know that for the next week at least, he was not to be disturbed for anything less than a seven. They were mostly competent without him, but Sherlock was not. Tucking his phone away before he could get any responses he resumed his careful appraisal of his brother. Another inaudible sigh left his lips when he slipped his hand into the curled and unresponsive fingers he’d squeezed earlier. He knew that Sherlock would be out for the remainder of the night and most likely well into the next day. He hoped to get him out of this place before tomorrow evening, but that all depended on Sherlock.

“Do you remember that awful vacation that mummy and father took us on after my first semester at Uni? I was 18 and so humiliated at having to have a family holiday but mummy insisted. Said you’d missed me so much, but of course you were only 11 at the time and were unwilling to show it. We went to Uncle Milton’s house in Nice… I don’t think you spoke one word to me the entire time we were travelling. I suppose that you were mad at me for leaving you in mummy’s tender care. She has never been terribly maternal. When we got there mummy and father realized that Uncle Milton had rather embellished on the descriptions of his house, it was barely more than a cabin. At least it had a door on the bathroom.”

Mycroft smiled at his memories. Lost as he was in the story he missed Sherlock’s eyes opening just a fraction.

“You threw such a fit when mummy suggested that we head to a hotel instead. I took one look at you, looked right in your eyes Sherlock and saw how much fun you thought that place would be, and also asked to stay. I wanted to do what you wanted to do. I couldn’t be bothered to care what our parents did but you were a different story. There was no second bedroom, only a loft and two camp beds squished together. I suppose when I took your side in the argument you changed your mind about speaking to me and we lay awake that whole first night, talking and being shushed by mummy so that we wouldn’t wake up father.”

“Do you remember the ‘adventures’ we went on that winter? I simply cannot remember if I ever laughed so hard before or since that holiday. I could hide away on the beach with you, without having to worry about father’s disapproval or the fact that I was a University man now, full grown and far too mature to be acting that way. It was worth it all to see your blissed-out tired face at the end of every day and wake up to you jumping on my cot.”

Mycroft smiled brighter as he closed his eyes and pictured the memory. Eleven year old Sherlock, all elbows and knees with a great mop of black curls on top of his head with never ending questions about everything streaming from his smiling face. It was a wonderful sight even faded as memories can be. Sherlock curled his fingers tighter around his brother’s to alert him to his awake state. He couldn’t speak throat too sore to make even the slightest sounds, but Mycroft, lost in memory, didn’t need him to speak. He smiled down at his brother.

“I can’t promise anything brother dear, this may make you hate me more than you ever did or it may bring us back to the closeness that we once shared. However, you no longer have a say in the matter. You are coming home to live with me.” Sherlock, had he had the capacity for speech, would have been struck mute by that statement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains fairly detailed info on withdrawal symptoms and timeline and some Mycroft beating himself up. Also, since we have no JOhn yet....BAMF Lestrade is here to save the day. I apologize for the erratic updates. I work so much...I write when I can. Next one is 1/2 way there. Not Beta'd or Brit Picked. I do not own BBC, or Sherlock Holmes or anything else...just the plot.

True to his word, Mycroft secured the proper paperwork and signed Sherlock out of the hospital the next day.  He helped his far too skinny brother into some proper clothes and into a wheelchair for the trip down to the waiting car.  Surprisingly, Mycroft had only gotten one single response from his mass of texts sent last night, from Anthea.

Do what you need to do.  I will handle everything. A

Mycroft bundled the still mute Sherlock into his waiting car and followed him in.  They were moving as soon as the door was shut behind him.  Correctly deducing that Sherlock’s continued silence was by choice instead of necessity, Mycroft followed his example.  The silence was not comfortable, nor was it choking.  It was merely silence.

Mycroft’s brain raced ahead, thinking of all the things that he wanted to say when his brother was willing to listen.  If he ever was.  Sherlock’s obstinacy reached amazing levels when he wanted it to. Mycroft shifted his thoughts in a different direction before he had a headache.  He was suddenly glad that he’d had the forethought to arrange a guest room in his house that was for Sherlock alone, and have his staff stock it too.  He had Sherlock sized clothing and his preferred personal grooming products, books that he knew Sherlock would enjoy in addition to a decorating scheme that would calm his brother.

The calming would be important; withdrawal was going to be complete and utter hell for them both.

The first 48 hours away from the hospital, Sherlock was tractable.  Eating when he was told, sleeping when he was told, but otherwise silent.  Mycroft tried to get him interested in something but he wouldn’t speak and did nothing unless given a direct order.  Mycroft despaired and at 49 hours almost exactly, all hell broke loose.

Sherlock was in his bed when the first stomach cramps hit him, curling himself into the fetal position he barely even registered the diarrhea starting.  Mycroft came running into the bedroom at the tiny sound of distress that he’d been waiting for.  Sherlock was covered with his own filth and curled into a ball.

Mycroft grimly pulled Sherlock out of the bed and into the attached en-suite bathroom.  He lowered his brother into the tub before removing his soiled clothes and running water without closing the drain.  Biting his lip with an uncharacteristic show of indecision, he grabbed his mobile from his pocket and called Gregory.

“Hello?”

“Gregory, this is Mycroft Holmes.”  Mycroft heard a soft sigh through the phone that he clenched like a lifeline.

“Is the withdrawal starting?  Do you need anything?”  Mycroft quickly adjusted the water so that one of the jets was hitting Sherlock in the stomach and absently reached for a wash cloth with his free hand before responding.

“It is and I am loathe to let my household staff back in to my house while we are going through this, but I need help.”  The Holmes’ family was famous for not asking for help; hopefully Gregory did not know this.  The silence on the other end of the line put an end to that delusion.

“Let me talk to my boss, I have a lot of leave accumulated. I can arrange for a week and be there within the hour.  Should I bring anything with me? Oh, and I’ll need your home address I suppose.”  Mycroft rambled off his address with relief as he thought about whether it would be prudent to have medication handy.

“No Gregory, just you will be fine. I don’t think that, with Sherlock’s history, narcotics would be a good idea, so it will have to be simple brute force and paracetamol to help him pull through.”  Gregory sighed again.

“Yeah, you are right about that.  No sense in detoxing from one drug by using another.  I’ll be there within the hour.”  He hung up, relieved, and began washing Sherlock in earnest.  Sherlock was shivering at this point and moaning near constantly.  Mycroft turned the water temperature up just a bit before dashing from the room to remove the soiled bedding and throw it in a bag with the soiled clothes and tying off the bag tightly to be binned as soon as possible.

True to his word, Gregory arrived at the 50 minute mark, looking grim, determined and not a little bit attractive in loose jeans and an old, faded tee-shirt.  Mycroft recovered himself just in time not to drool. He warmly brought the Sergeant into his home and shut the door firmly before greeting him properly.  With the Sherlock situation upstairs, he was not really in the correct frame of mind around this intoxicating man.

“I’d really like to say it’s good to see you but under the circumstances, I think that might be in bad taste.”  Gregory gave him a small smile and he returned it before hearing another sound of distress from upstairs.  He dashed off without a word and could feel the other man right behind him.

Sherlock was still in the tub, though the water was off and he was dry, wrapped in a towel and dressing gown.  He whimpered and shivered.  Gregory reached the tub first, reaching down and lifting Sherlock into his arms as though he were no larger than a small child.

“Mycroft after I stopped at my flat to grab my things I stopped at the Druggist and bought a set of rubber sheets and a few other things that could come in handy.  Do you want to get them out of my bag or take Sherlock so that I can do it?”  Holding Sherlock in his arms was something that he wanted fiercely, but he also couldn’t hold back the curiosity about what else was in the man’s bag.

“I shall get the sheets, if you’ll bring him back into his bedroom.”  Gregory nodded and followed Mycroft into the room that he’d pointed out.  The elder Holmes left the room and Gregory looked down at the face of the younger.

“Kid, you gotta pull through this.  Come on, no one is as mulish as you are.  I know exactly what happened the other night and if you think that I’ll sit back and let you die after saving your sorry arse the other night, you are sadly mistaken.”  Sherlock’s eyes flitted open and he seemed to smile at Gregory before squeezing his eyes shut again and curling his body even tighter in the man’s arms.

Mycroft quickly rummaged through Gregory’s bag, finding nothing truly shocking or exciting in it, though he wished he had.  He found the rubber sheets and climbed the stairs back to Sherlock’s room, pausing outside the door to listen in on what the attractive sergeant was saying to the unresponsive body in his arms.

“I know you better than this, you know.  You may think that you are above it all but just in the few short months we’ve known each other I’ve gleaned a few things about _observing and deducing_ from you.  You hold the world off; you’ve been hurt badly in the past by someone who meant the world to you.  Maybe it was even your posh but frantic brother.  If that’s the case Sherlock, you listen to me; he is trying.  He cares.  Mebbe he told you that he didn’t, I kinda get the sense that the whole unfeeling lark was learned from him, but he cares.  I can see it in his face, in every move of his body and even his speech patterns.  I may not have a genius intellect like the two of you, but I am smart.  He loves you; he wants to see you whole and functioning again.  Hell, we both do kid.”  Mycroft cleared his throat and scuffed his shoe on the floor to announce his arrival.  It would not due to be caught eavesdropping on such a private and lovely sentiment.

Gregory turned towards the door, the body of Sherlock still hanging limply in his arms and for just a moment Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat, envisioning a wholly different scenario than the one taking place right now.  He swallowed around the lump of fear and, yes, sentiment that lodged in his throat before heading to the bed and covering the mattress in the rubber sheets.

“A brilliant but detestable addition to the proceedings, thank you Gregory.”  He watched as Gregory ever so gently laid Sherlock on the bed, seemingly reluctant to let go even though his arms had to be growing weary. He turned and looked back at Mycroft, his sweet, simple heart on his face for the world to see.

“The next few days will be horrible.  This is just the start.”

Gregory’s words could not have been more prophetic.  The shaking increased until each of them sat on either side of the bed to buffer Sherlock’s decimated body from rolling right off the edge.  He whined almost constantly but still four days after the overdose had not said one single word.  His eyes were running with mucous and tears, as was his nose.  The diarrhea stopped, finally, on the morning of the fifth day, simply because his body had nothing else to expel.  Mycroft mistakenly thought it was the beginning of the end, and the tension in his shoulders slackened off.  Gregory knew better however.

“There is just one more hill, but it’s an Everest of a hill Mycroft.  You might wanna leave today to me alone.  Family members usually…well, bollocks there’s no polite way of putting it, he’s gonna ask to die today.”  For all of his education, his ruthlessness in the political world, nothing could have prepared him for Gregory’s words or the day that followed.

“I WANT TO DIE! I HATE YOU BOTH, PLEASE JUST LET ME DIE IN PEACE! WHY MUST YOU-NNNGH- LET ME DIE!”  The screaming reached a fever pitch a little past noon, and it was unceasing.  Every single screamed word, every single syllable torn from his brother’s raspy throat was another bullet wound to him.  Ashamed of himself, he left the room to Gregory and wandered down the hall to his soundproofed sitting room.  He was so ashamed, and felt so guilty that he couldn’t bring himself to shut the door and therefore shut out Sherlock’s agonizing screams.  He poured himself a large scotch and stared into the empty fireplace, listening to his brother begging for death.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little stilted, written and edited mostly between the hours of 3-5 am over a few nights. I apologize if it comes out forced. I'm trying to regulate my sleep (sleeping is dumb) as well as my writing schedule so that updates can be more frequent but...i can only really write when the muse dictates.

When the screaming finally stopped and the house became quiet and still once again, Mycroft was far too inebriated to do anything except fall asleep in his chair.  When he awoke, the cut glass decanter of scotch, now empty, was reflecting light from the window into his face and he took a moment to squint at it.  His internal clock telling him it was just gone five am, he roughly pushed himself from his chair and went in search of his bathroom.

Unable to do more than brush his teeth and splash cold water over his face due to the pounding in his head, he shuffled off to Sherlock’s room.  Unsteady as he was, he bumped the doorframe on his way in and was gratified to see Sherlock’s head swivel and look at him clearly for the first time in a long time.

“I am relieved to see you looking so much better, little brother.”  He breathed into the air, unwilling to raise his voice and wake Gregory; or increase the throbbing in his temples.  He should’ve gotten some tea before checking on them.

He took a moment to look over his brother; face returned to normal coloring, but still too thin, eyes cleared completely.  The sheets were twisted around Sherlock’s hips, leaving his top bare; Mycroft could easily count his ribs.  That would be the first struggle, he thought; feeding Sherlock up a bit.  Maybe a specialist?  His thoughts trailed off, thinking about nutritionists and ways to trick calories into the boy, when he heard an imperious huff from the bed and the sound of the rubber sheets squeaking.  He forced his eyes back down.

Sherlock was moving his head back and forth imperceptibly, forcing Mycroft to look at his eyes to see what he wanted.  Ah, he was questioning the Sergeant’s presence then.

“Yes, Sergeant Lestrade was the one to find you last week; he brought you to hospital and they contacted me in turn.  He offered his assistance if it was required.  A few days ago…”Mycroft trailed off, cursing the hangover and too little sleep for him struggling to choose the correct words for this delicate situation.

“A few days ago, his assistance became necessary.  He cares a great deal for you little brother.  He is…a remarkable man and very good at his job.  It’s no wonder that you were attracted to him when you decided that you’d like to work with but not for the police.”  Sherlock’s eyes became wide at his brother’s praise and Mycroft huffed in impatience.

“I can recognize competency when I am presented with it Sherlock.  Just because you think I am not capable of giving praise does not mean that I do not give it.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did not take the bait.  Perhaps a nutritionist was not the only specialist that Mycroft would have to research.  Sherlock always took the chance to verbally spar with his brother, ever since he could speak.

“Myc’ft? Sh’lock? Awake?”  The policeman in question mumbled into his shoulder before stretching his neck and forcing himself awake.  His eyes fluttered before their soulful brown irises were revealed to the brothers.  Neither one had ever heard their names shortened before.  One thought it was adorable; the other thought it was preposterous.  Well, Sherlock was a preposterous mouthful anyway.

Upon seeing that Sherlock was awake, Gregory jumped up from his chair and leaned in towards him on the bed.  Mycroft hadn’t been aware that he’d held his breath until his vision started to get distorted and he let it out in a huff.  One never knew what Sherlock would do in any given situation, not even him.

Gregory leaned in close, looking Sherlock deep in the eyes, then reached around his skinny shoulders and brought him up off the bed for a hug.  Sherlock, unaccustomed to this kind of man-handling, widened his eyes and looked at his brother before gently settling his hands on the other man’s back and hugging him slightly.

“You, young man, are never to do that to us again.  No more drugs, I mean it.  This is the last time that I will help you to detox, Sherlock.  You scared us half to death.  You can’t keep doing this.  I will allow you to continue helping me, but only if you stay clean!  I hope rehab a-la-Mycroft does its trick.”  Gregory pulled back and grasped Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking him gently to make sure that the message was understood. 

Sherlock smiled, and it lit up the whole room, but he didn’t speak.  He nodded his head gently then wrinkled his nose, clearly at the smell emanating from himself and Gregory.  Mycroft allowed himself an inward chuckle, before butting in again.

“Yes, I imagine that the pair of you would like to get cleaned up?  Sherlock, your bathroom is right though those doors and Gregory, if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to the guest room.”  Sherlock, weakly lifted himself off the bed, swaying a bit but staying on his feet.  Anyone other than Mycroft would have missed the wince on his features at the pain from his muscles, but knowing that this would be a delicate time, he refrained from commenting on it, leading Gregory from the room instead.

An Hour later found the three of them silently sipping tea in the sitting room, waiting for supper to be served.  Mycroft was uncomfortable with the sharp eyed looks that Sherlock was shooting him.  He could not begin to guess what Sherlock was deducing about him, and Sherlock was no closer to opening his mouth and speaking than he had been for the last week. Gregory, bless him, was trying to inject some semblance of normalcy from his solitary seat on the sofa, but neither brother was paying him any attention.  The butler announced supper, and Mycroft almost flattened the poor man in his haste to get out of that room.

Dinner was an awkward affair at best, with Mycroft and Gregory attempting stilted conversation and Sherlock not eating as he watched the verbal sparring rather like a tennis match.  Mycroft was disgusted with himself. He had hosted heads of state and had charmed them completely, but for some reason he couldn’t manage to hold a flowing conversation with an attractive man who had been living in his house for the last week.

When the disastrous dinner was over, Mycroft escorted Sherlock (firmly, with a hand on his elbow and the other on his back) into his room. 

“Sherlock…won’t you talk to me.” He pleaded as Sherlock pulled the fresh duvet up to his chin.  His brother simply looked at him with those sea-glass colored eyes and said nothing.  Mycroft turned to leave dejectedly, shoulders hunched.  It was only the first day out of the withdrawal symptoms; he had to give his brother time. He left the room.

Gregory was standing in the foyer, with his repacked bag in his hand.  Mycroft approached him with a small smile on his face; one that grew when he saw the sentiment reflected on the other man’s handsome face.

“Mycroft, I am so glad that I could help, but I have to get back to my own life now. Gotta get back to the grind if I want to make DI someday.”  Gregory smiled and held out a hand for Mycroft to shake.  Their hands zinged as they touched.

“Sorry, static.” Gregory apologized, but Mycroft had hardly noticed; he felt a bit of a shock every time the other man touched him.

“I simply cannot thank you enough for your assistance this past week, and before.  Taking my brother under your wing…” Mycroft’s eyes unconsciously flickered up the stairs to where Sherlock was.

“Yeah, I get it Mycroft.  I’ve got siblings too, all of ‘em younger than me.  Some need more handling than others, but they’re all good kids.  I meant what I said to ‘im though.  He stays clean, I’ll let him help out.  Can’t see how it could be a paid position…”  Gregory trailed off and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.  Mycroft smiled wryly.

“Sherlock will never hurt for money… I’d rather he be entertained and engaged than employed anyway.  What a terrible employee he would make.”  Both men laughed at the thought of Sherlock working.

“Yeah, well, so have him give me a call.  Or, you know, you could give me a call. If you need anything else.”  Mycroft smiled again and was amazed at how simply talking with this man could make him so very happy.

“Thanks again Gregory.  We certainly will call you.”  He opened the door and gestured the other man through, suppressing the urge to touch him as he swept past.  The door shut firmly.

The silence of the house was oppressive in the wake of the Sergeant’s departure and Mycroft took it as a sign to attend the massive folder of work that had accumulated in his week-long mental absence.  He turned towards his study and braced himself.

His phone, which had been off and actually inside the folder to be “out of sight, out of mind” while he helped Sherlock, came back on quickly.  He flicked his eyes at the waiting bubble of e-mails, that said there were only 95 and he was impressed with the efficiency of his staff for being able to handle so much without him; on an average day he had more than double that amount if he didn’t check them regularly.

He settled down to clear out the mail first thing; those would be the most immediate issues for him to handle.  He dealt with each one in his usual ruthless efficiency, until he got to the last one, which came directly from his assistant, Anthea. He frowned as he read it; it was Gregory Lestrade’s personal file.

The file contained his whole life; everything from his childhood, to his expunged teenaged-year’s record, to his current status within New Scotland Yard.  His record was exemplary. Heedless of the hour, knowing that Anthea would always answer his call, he picked up the phone and pressed her speed-dial.

“Sir” Came the response after exactly one ring. He smiled softly at her promptness.

“Sergeant Gregory Lestrade is due for a promotion. I’d like it to be arranged tonight for when he walks in the door to New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in the update...life is crazy. Tourists leave after Labor day and I shall have more time for you all!!!

Two weeks; two impossibly long weeks of Mycroft catching up on his work while not actually feeling as though he could leave his house due to his recalcitrant brother’s rehab program. Two weeks of Sherlock still not speaking a single word and yet still being so contrary that Mycroft thought he might be going insane from the pressure of it all.  He still refused to call Gregory; the man’s new work position did not afford him much in the way of free time, but he wanted to.  Mycroft monitored him on the CCTV cameras that he’d had uplinked to his home computer.  He had to work from home, after all.  It was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

At precisely six every evening, his butler announced that dinner was ready and Mycroft shook off the work of the day and made his way into the dining room, at this point knowing that he would be greeted by a stoically silent Sherlock who refused to eat, but would happily smirk at him as he ate his own meal.  Bracing himself for more of the same, Mycroft seated himself at the table and waited to be served.

Sherlock perched on his chair across from Mycroft like a bird on a wire, saying nothing, simply sneering at Mycroft every time his head was raised.  He picked at his food and moved it around his plate without eating any of it.  Mycroft couldn’t help himself; he snapped.

“Sherlock, this is intolerable. This has to stop.  You need food and I will not _ask_ you nicely again, please eat.  You are still in my legal care and I will certainly not hesitate to send you to…”Mycroft trailed off as the caught the unguarded look of fear on his brother’s face.  Then he stopped and looked at Sherlock; really looked for the first time since the withdrawals were over.

He had more color in his face, that was true, but even less body fat than before.  His cheekbones looked like angles sticking out of his face and there were large smudges under his eyes.  His clothes should have fit him like they were made for him (which they were) but they were hanging off his frame.  His hair was lying flat on his head, too greasy to even bounce into Sherlock’s exuberant natural curls.  Mycroft cursed inwardly while trying to keep a blank look on his face; he’d been so busy with work and keeping Sherlock hostage that he’d completely missed the fact that Sherlock wasn’t really capable of caring for himself.

“I couldn’t…wouldn’t send you away Sherlock. Not after the last time….” Mycroft trailed off as he thought about their mother’s sectioning of Sherlock when he was 14.  Horrific couldn’t begin to cover it, for him or for Sherlock.  “You and I have a lot of work ahead of us though.”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, but in concession to the fact that he wasn’t being immediately sent away, he took a small bite of his dinner roll.  Mycroft smothered his smile with a big bite of his own dinner.

As Mycroft lay in bed later that evening, he reflected on the situation.  Without Sherlock speaking to him, even in the basest of terms, it was difficult to see where they stood.  However, Mycroft was willing to venture that Sherlock eating some of his dinner was a positive sign.  He also, shakily and with a lot of horrible facial expressions, allowed Mycroft to help him shower.  Mycroft winced as he thought about how emaciated his brother looked without his clothing.

Morning dawned, as it always did, far too early for Mycroft’s taste.  He groaned as he heaved himself from the bed, ready to face another silent day with Sherlock and paperwork.  He was pleasantly surprised when he arrived for breakfast and Sherlock was already seated at the table, dressed in proper clothing and actually eating.  He slid into his seat and draped his napkin over his lap as the Chef Thomas slid his plate onto the table in front of him.  He dug into the eggs benedict with delight. 

Sherlock made an inquiring noise and he looked up from his plate.

“Is there something you wanted, dear brother?”  Mycroft smirked as he put down his fork and waited.  Sherlock said nothing, only tapped his temple with one skeletal finger.  Mycroft fought back a deep sigh.

“Sherlock, I refuse to play charades with you, if you want something you’ll have to use your words and ask for it.”  It came out a lot more condescending than he’d intended and Mycroft had to stop himself from apologizing. He bit his tongue as Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited, repeating the gesture.

“Oh fine…let me see. You want something that will occupy your mind while I keep you on house arrest?”  He knew what Sherlock really wanted, but Mycroft was hesitant to give it to him only 2 weeks into recovery.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and began eating again.   Mycroft’s heart melted.  Sherlock was a little bit like a puppy; doing something that he knew would get him into Mycroft’s good graces.  Mycroft bit down on a “good boy.”

“Sherlock, I’m not sure you’re ready for-“ he cut himself off as his brother’s head whipped up to glare at him.  Sherlock would not be rushed into recovery, nor would he be denied working material.  Mycroft felt like he was walking a tightrope.

“I will call Detective Inspector Lestrade tomorrow to ask for cold case files, but only on the condition that you eat three meals today and attempt to practice your violin.”  Sherlock frowned before nodding sharply once and picking up his fork again.  Mycroft thought it was going to be a long day.

Mycroft worked in his home office all day with the door cracked, occasionally smiling at the sweet sounds of violin playing one floor away.  His brother, whatever he had done to himself, had never given up on his violin.  Sherlock was such a magnificent player; he could have made a career of it, had that been approved by mother.  Mycroft bit down on the residual anger towards his mother.

The woman would always control her two boys; far too strongly for either one of them to ever feel comfortable. Mycroft had been the perfect one, what…indecencies had occurred in his past were hidden from her ever watchful eyes.  Sherlock had never really been given a chance.

Sherlock was unplanned, and the stress of having another child had driven his father to seek extra-marital affairs. Which in turn had driven his mother off the proverbial deep-end when she’d found out. Mycroft could never forgive himself for not trying to save Sherlock from that mess.  His father left, having been kicked out, and Sherlock was blamed for all of it.  Never mind that he was just a child, who wanted to be loved.

Sherlock had never been capable of asking for love though.  Sherlock refused to speak until he was nearly six years old, waiting until he could from complete sentences and express himself fluently the way that all of the adults around him could.  Mycroft smiled at the memory.

_Mycroft and mummy were in the sitting room, having a discussion about where Mycroft would be going to school.  Mycroft was aghast that anywhere other than his Oxford legacy and dream would even be in question.  He was arguing with mummy in even tones.  IN walked a 7 year old Sherlock in a homemade Pirate costume, carrying a fake sword.  He said nothing, looking at Mycroft and mummy in turn before climbing onto the sofa with Mycroft and burrowing into his side._

_“Mummy, I don’t understand why Myc has to decide this now, but we all know that Oxford is the only place that is even remotely good enough for my brother.”  Mummy’s mouth had dropped open like a common fool and Mycroft had hugged Sherlock to his side, too stunned for speech._

_Sherlock’s first words in his whole life were in defense of his brother, against his mother._

The encounter had set the tone for the rest of their lives to this point.  Mycroft and Sherlock united only to thwart their mother.  It wasn’t a normal relationship, but it was the best that they could get.  Mycroft turned the page on the report that he’d been reading and busied himself in the present, though he would have gladly stayed immersed in the past.

Before heading to dinner, Mycroft made arraignments for Gregory to be briefed on the situation and brought to his home tomorrow after his shift; hopefully with a few cold-case files to occupy Sherlock’s time.  He never once considered that Gregory might mind in any way.  Dinner was uneventful, and while Sherlock did eat, he didn’t eat enough to dispel Mycroft’s lingering worries over his nutrition and physical well-being.

“Sherlock, I think that we may both benefit from a nutritionist being brought in to assist Chef Thomas in the kitchen.  Would that be acceptable to you?”  Knowing Sherlock wouldn’t answer verbally made asking all the easier.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes distrustfully, but gave a short nod. Mycroft nodded in response.

“Good, I shall endeavor to find someone tomorrow.  I have already contacted Scotland Yard, and Detective Inspector Lestrade should be arriving tomorrow evening with some cold case files for you to occupy your time.  However, if you persist in this petulance of not speaking, perhaps you may want to decide how you wish to communicate.”  Mycroft wiped his lips with his napkin to hide the smile he had from Sherlock’s offended face.

Another too-short night of barely adequate rest saw Mycroft back in his home office surrounded by paperwork and the sounds of an expertly played violin. It was an arduous day, too many problems cropping up that couldn’t be trusted to delegation.  Mycroft groaned as he stretched his back, rubbing the lower part slightly.  He hadn’t realized that he’d been hunched in the same position for the entire day until the doorbell rang.

He stepped out of his office, the house gone suspiciously quiet after the bell faded away, and headed towards the door. He pulled the door open to reveal the attractive, scowling face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Ah, Detective Inspector, just in time. Please come in, Chef Thomas should be setting dinner on the table just now.”  Mycroft smiled, not realizing just how much he’d missed the man’s company.  Gregory did not smile in return, but he did step into the house and allow the door to be shut behind him.

Gregory looked around for a place to put the large box he was carrying, and Mycroft simply gestured to the floor.  Gregory dropped it with a satisfying ‘thud.’  Mycroft raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Yeah, I see you already knew about my promotion.  Wonder how that could be, huh?  You know, there were two great guys up for this promotion before me; two guys that I respect and have been working a lot longer than I have.  I take unexpected, personal leave for one week to help out a friend, who just happens to be a Holmes, and I come back to work as a DI over two guys that deserved it way more than I did.  Can I give it back? No. Can I transfer to a different department? No to that too. So now I have to put up with all this absolute _shit_ because, according the rumors, I’ve slept my way to a promotion. Do you have any idea how awful that feels?”  Gregory is red in the face, panting with anger and all Mycroft can think is that he’s the most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen.  Mycroft tilts his head and ponders what to say.

“Am I supposed to apologize?  You deserved the promotion on your work history alone.  You suddenly know the right people and are getting what you deserve.  I refuse to apologize for that.  If these people are making your life difficult, I can have them removed.”  Gregory’s eyes widen as Mycroft speaks, and he feels like he is somehow making a mistake.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I do not own any recognizable characters. OH MY GOD, I've updated! I apologize for the wait and, if there's anyone out there who's still reading this, I swear, It WILL be finished. It simply, probably will not be updated with any kind of regularity. I'm nearing the introduction of everyone's favorite army doctor though, so please, stay tuned!

Silence reins in the house as Gregory stares at Mycroft and Mycroft stares right back.  Both men start as a sound reaches them from the top of the stairs and they turn as one to see what it is. 

Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest, is leaning with one hip on the bannister and very obviously, silently laughing at them.  The sound that they heard was a scoff, just an involuntary exhale of breath through throat and sinuses, but it’s the first sound Sherlock has made since he begged for death.  Mycroft is so relieved that he forgets Gregory is even standing there.  In the two weeks since that awful day when Sherlock begged to die, Mycroft had begun to worry that, just perhaps, Sherlock’s silence was not voluntary.

His eyes grow momentarily misty, to his horror.  Mycroft turns suddenly and faces the wall, unable to contain his joy, and the emotions showing it. He swallows hard as a hand cups his elbow and turns him back around to face the new DI.  Gregory has sympathy in his eyes and Mycroft allows it for a moment before forcing his face into a more acceptable mask.  Sherlock is at the bottom of the stairs, heading for the box of case files that had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor.

Gregory steps back and Mycroft misses the feel of his hand immediately.  He snorts aloud, mentally berating himself for the situation with his brother and how it seems to be making him sentimental.  He squares his shoulders and looks only at Sherlock; resolutely not at Gregory. He most certainly does not remark upon the way that his anger at Mycroft and is fondness for Sherlock reflect upon his handsome face.  Nor does he note that his skin is markedly paler tan it had been just two weeks ago, or that he has new lines on his forehead.

Sadly, Mycroft thinks to himself, it only makes the man more attractive.  He always did have a thing for older men.  He clears his throat and looks at the two men in the room.

“Chef Thomas must have finished setting out dinner. Let us head into the dining room. Sherlock, you owe me another meal before you can have that.”  He flushed a bit, feeling like a parent scolding a naughty child in front of company, and headed into the dining room.

The meal begins silently and stiffly; Mycroft inwardly rolls his eyes and heads to the sideboard to fetch a bottle of brandy.  He pours a drink for himself and for Gregory, ignoring Sherlock’s pointed look at being skipped over.

“When you prove yourself able to enjoy in moderation Sherlock, then I shall pour for you as well.”  Sherlock huffs a bit and squirms in his chair, but stays stubbornly silent and continues to eat.  Mycroft shared an indulgent smile with Gregory, who raises his glass in salute.

“Little brothers are like nothing else.”  Mycroft tipped his glass in response and took a sip, allowing the flavor to roll over his tongue and permeate his sinuses.  He reseated himself and began to dig into his own meal.  He didn’t see the speculative look that Gregory shot him.

“I apologize Mycroft, I know you were trying to show your appreciation the only way that you know how.  Sherlock has told me enough about your childhoods…I do understand.  I just hate that all the people that I have to work with, the people that are supposed to support, trust and respect me, think I got this job because I slept with you. Not that it would be a bad thing if I had, but…”  Gregory’s eyes go wide and cheeks take on an alarming shade of pink when he realized what he’d said.  Mycroft and Sherlock took on identical inquiring looks, waiting for him to go on.  He was so amusing.

“Oh fuck, this is not how I wanted to sound… I sound like an idiot. Sherlock, can I have a minute with your brother?”  Sherlock laughed silently, made a show of wiping his lips on his napkin and slowly getting up from the table, going so far as to push in his chair before leaving the room.  He winked at Gregory as he passed him.

“Gregory, I assure you that, despite your enchanting rambling, I did understand what you were trying to say.  I suppose I should apologize as well.  You should know, however, that had you not deserved the promotion, you would not have gotten it.  I may occupy a minor position in the government, but that does not mean that I always get what I want.”  Gregory laughs aloud.

“Minor position…Mycroft, please do not think I am one of your minions who will accept anything that you tell me.  You are so much more than a minor anything.  That’s not the point, and I thank you and forgive you. As to the rest of it…well, would you, maybe, like to get dinner with me sometime?  We will leave it open-ended, cuz neither one of us really can make plans out but…um, yeah. What do you think?”  Gregory is flushed again and it is the most charming thing that Mycroft has ever seen.

Before he can stop himself he leans forward across the table and places a light kiss on the older man’s oh-so-temping lips.  Just the barest brush of skin, but he can feel tiny sparks throughout his whole body.  Mycroft smiles brightly.

“I think that I would like nothing more than to have a dinner out with just you.”  Gregory gives a goofy, happy smile and Mycroft leans forward to brush their lips together again.  They hear a crash in the hallway and jump up, rushing into the foyer.

Sherlock is on the floor, the box of case files open beside him and a large, red marker in his hand.  The sound they heard was the lid of the box, having been thrown across the large space and hitting the wall.  Sherlock had scrawled the words “bumbling, incompetent idiots” across the top of it.  Mycroft handed the lid to Gregory, who barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.

“Sometimes yeah, they are, but I have to work with them, so let’s try not to antagonize too much, okay Sherlock?” He crouched down, placing the lid on the ground to see what Sherlock was doing.  It looked, much to the DI’s surprise, that he’d already solved six of the 2 dozen cold cases in the box. 

The outside of the ‘solved’ files, had Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting on them.  There was everything ranging from simple statements, “if brother has green ladder arrest brother” to long, rambling sentences that didn’t make immediate sense to Gregory.  He arched an eyebrow and turned to look up at Mycroft, who had such a look of love and fondness on his face that Gregory nearly kissed him again.  He shifted and stood up.

“Sherlock, you need to pace yourself. No more tonight, go play your violin for an hour and I’ll bring the box into my study for the morning.”  Sherlock looked mutinous and for just a moment, Mycroft thought he was going to have a fit.

Instead, just to be contrary, he gracefully stood up from the floor, dusted off the knees of his trousers, turned up his nose and walked away.  Mycroft let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  On the one hand, Sherlock’s fits were something truly awful to handle.  On the other hand, Sherlock would have had to talk to have one.  Mycroft handed Gregory the solved case files and lifted the box of the others, gesturing for the other man to follow him.

They headed down the hallway in companionable silence until they reached the study.  Mycroft put the box down on one of the side tables and was unprepared for Gregory to grab his arm and spin him around for a proper kiss.  He felt the older man’s hands sliding down his back before cupping and squeezing his ass, bringing them closer together.  He squeaked, and was about to break away from Gregory’s hungry kiss when he heard and answering growl in the other man’s chest.  Mycroft sagged into Gregory’s hold and reached up to cup the back of his head.

Gregory pulled back, placing soft kiss after soft kiss on his lips before pulling back long enough to open his eyes and look him in the face.  Mycroft was certain that he had a goofy look on his face like some cartoon character, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  He’d not had a relationship in a long time; decent physical contact in even longer.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.  You’re just fucking irresistible.”  Gregory drawled at him.  Mycroft felt his heart rate increase at the words and the tone coming from the other man.  He smiled up at him.

“I find that I return the sentiment.”  Gregory responded with another thorough pawing of his backside.  Mycroft arched his back and went up on his toes to keep in contact with the other man.  Gregory growled again, flexing his hips and allowing them both to feel the friction between their clothed erections.  Mycroft closed his eyes and pushed on the older mans’ chest gently to break the embrace.

“As much as I would love to partake in what I think is being offered; I hope you realize that I am not a cheap date.  The rest of our activities will have to wait until after we have had a proper date; outside of this house and Sherlock’s impeccable hearing.”  Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought of Sherlock crashing their date.  Gregory laughed.

“Yeah, I figured as much; you’re too posh for a pawing.  Okay, well, you have your assistant call my office in the morning, I should get going. I’m gonna take the ones that he solved; keep the rest and you can return them as he goes.  I’ve got nearly a whole damn warehouse of unsolved cases, so he’ll never be bored.”  Mycroft mumbles something encouraging but unintelligible even to his own ears as he escorts Gregory back to the front door.

They share another few chaste kisses at the door before it opens to let Gregory out into the night.  HE smiles at Mycroft and steps away.  Mycroft closes the door behind him with a small smile on his face; and looks right into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh, stop it.”  Mycroft is horrified to feel a blush creep up his cheeks.  His brother’s smile gets larger as he positively leers at him and for the first time, Mycroft is thankful that Sherlock isn’t speaking.

“Yes, yes, all right. Make fun all you want Sherlock, it changes nothing.  If you aren’t even willing to open your mouth and speak then I shall not put up with your teasing.  I’m not a child anymore and neither are you.”  Sherlock’s smile dims a bit, but comes back full force as he lifts a brand-new smartphone up to their eye level.  Mycroft’s phone chirps in his pocket.

 **Greg and Mycroft, sitting in a tree…SH.** Mycroft laughs before he can stop himself.

“Well, Sherly, maybe you are still a child.”  The laughing increases as Sherlock storms upstairs.


End file.
